THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


ROWEN 


"SECOND  CROP"  SONGS 


H.  C.  BUNNER 


A  Book  of  Verses  underneath  the  Bough, 
A  yug  of  Wine,  a  Loaf  of  Bread,  and  That, 

Beside  me  singing  in  the  Wilderness  — 
Oh,  Wilderness  were  Paradise  enow  I 

—  Omar  Khayydm 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1892 


Copyright,  I&)2,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


THE  DeVmNE  PRESS. 


PS 
12.0 


TO   A.  L.  B. 

I  put  your  rose  within  our  baby's  hand, 
To  bear  back  with  him  into  Baby-land ; 
Your  rose,  you  grew  it  —  O  my  ever  dear, 
What  roses  you  have  grown  me,  year  by  year! 
Your  lover  finds  no  path  too  hard  to  go 
While  your  lovers  roses  round  about  him  blow. 

October,  i8qz. 


1257999 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

AT  THE  CENTENNIAL  BALL  — 1889 5 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  NEW-YEAR'S  CALLERS 17 

MAY-BLOOM        .                                        19 

THE  LINNET          .                 21 

HEAVE  Ho ! 22 

AN  OLD-FASHIONED  LOVE-SONG 24 

A  LOOK  BACK 26 

PRUDENCE,  SPINNING 28 

THE  LIGHT 30 

GRANT 33 

"LET  Us  HAVE  PEACE" 36 

THE  BATTLE  OF  APIA  BAY 38 

WILHELM  I.,  EMPEROR  OF  GERMANY 40 

GENERAL  SHERMAN 44 

LEOPOLD  DAMROSCH 47 

J-  B 48 

MY  SHAKSPERE 51 

ON  SEEING  MAURICE  LELOIR'S  ILLUSTRATIONS  TO  STERNE'S  "  SENTI 
MENTAL  JOURNEY" 54 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

To  A  READER  OF  THE  XXIsx  CENTURY 55 

FOR  AN  OLD  POBT 59 

WILKIE  COLLINS 60 

FOR  C.  J.  T.  CONCERNING  A.  D 62 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN 63 

AN  EPISTLE 64 

ON  READING  CERTAIN  PUBLISHED  LETTERS  OF  W.  M.  T.  67 

CHAKEV  EINSTEIN 71 

A  FABLE  FOR  RULERS 77 

BISMARCK  SOLILOQUIZES "...  78 

IMITATION 82 

"  MAGDALENA  " 83 

"  ONE,  Two,  THREE  !  " 89 

THE  LITTLE  SHOP 92 

GRANDFATHER  WATTS'S  PRIVATE  FOURTH 95 

To  MY  DAUGHTER 98 

SCHUBERT'S  KINDER-SCENEN 100 


ROWEN 


J  A 7HY  do  I  love  New  York,  my  dear? 
V  v        I  know  not.     Were  my  father  here  — 

And  his  and  HIS  the  three  and  I 

Might,  perhaps,  make  you  some  reply. 


AT  THE    CENTENNIAL  BALL— 1889 

AN  OLD  MAN'S  OLD  FANCIES 

THERE  'S  the  music  —  go,  my  sweet, 
I  will  sit  and  watch  you  here; 
There  's  a  tingling  in  my  feet 

I  've  not  felt  this  many  a  year. 

But  my  music  's  done,  my  dear — 
'T  is  enough  this  heart  can  beat 

Time  to  strains  that  stir  your  heart; 
'T  is  enough  these  eyes  can  see 

Fresh  young  fires  of  pleasure  start 
In  the  eyes  you  turn  to  me. 

Loving,  yet,  my  dear, 

Loath  to  linger  here  — 
Music-maddened,  all  impatient  to  be  free. 

5 


Go,  the  music  swells  and  rises  —  go ! 

Younger  faces  wait  you  where 

All  a-tremble  is  the  air, 
And  a  rhythmic  murmur  low 

Wavers  to  and  fro  — 

Life  and  dance  and  clasp  of  lover's  hands  await  you  there. 
Go,  my  child,  with  cheeks  that  burn, 

Eyes  that  shine,  and  fluttering  breast, 
Go,  and  leave  me  —  not  alone  ! 

In  the  dance  you  shall  be  prest 
Close,  and  all  your  soul  shall  turn 

Tender  at  the  music's  tone ; 

But  more  close,  more  tenderly 
Shall  the  exultant  harmony 
Speak  to  this  old,  awakened  heart,  that  hears 

The  voices  of  dead  years. 

She  goes — and  from  below,  up-springing, 
The  stress  and  swell  of  lilting  sound 
Set  one  vast  field  of  color  swinging 

In  sinuous  measure  round  and  round. 
The  fiddle-bows  go  up  in  the  air, 

And  the  fiddle-bows  go  down; 
And  the  girl  of  mine  with  the  yellow  hair 
Is  dancing  to  an  old-time  air 

With  the  maids  of  New  York  town. 

6 


T^OIVEN 

My  eyes  grow  dim  to  see ; 

But  the  music  sends  a  song  to  me, 

And  here  's  the  song  that  comes  from  below 

From  the  dancing  tip  of  the  fiddle-bow : 


THE  BALL— 1789 

THE  Town  is  at  the  Ball  to-night, 
The  Town  is  at  the  Ball; 
From  the  Battery  to  Hickory  Lane 

The  Beaux  come  one  and  all. 
The  French  folk  up  along  the  Sound 

Took  carriage  for  the  city, 
And  Madge  the  Belle,  from  New  Rochelle, 
Will  stop  with  Lady  Kitty. 

And  if  the  Beaux  could  have  their  way 

Their  choice  would  be,  in  Brief, 
That  Madge  the  Belle  should  lead  the  ball 

And  open  with  THE  CHIEF. 
Though  Lady  Kitty's  high  estate 

May  give  his  choice  some  reason, 
By  Right  Divine  Madge  holds  her  place  — 

The  Toast  of  all  the  Season. 

7 


Behold  her  as  she  trips  the  floor 

By  Lady  Kitty's  side  — 
How  low  bows  Merit  at  her  glance, 

And  Valor,  true  and  tried! 
Each  hand  that  late  the  sword-hilt  grasped 

Would  fain  her  hand  be  pressing  — 
But,  ah !  fair  Madge,  who  '11  wear  your  badge 

Is  past  all  wooer's  guessing. 

The  Colonel  bows  his  powdered  head 

Well  nigh  unto  her  feet ; 
Fame's  Trump  rings  dull  unto  his  ears, 

That  wait  her  Accents  sweet. 
The  young  Leftenant,  Trig  and  Trim, 

Who  lately  won  his  spurs, 
Casts  love-sick  glances  in  her  way, 

And  wins  no  glance  of  hers. 

Before  her  bows  the  Admiral, 

Whose  head  was  never  bowed 
Before  the  foamy-crested  wave 

That  wet  the  straining  shroud. 
And  all  his  pretty  midshipmen, 

They  stand  there  in  a  line, 
Saluting  this  Fair  Craft  that  sails 

With  no  surrendering  sign. 


And  so  she  trips  across  the  floor 

On  Lady  Kitty's  arm, 
And  grizzled  pates  and  frizzled  pates 

All  bow  before  her  charm. 
And  she  will  dance  the  minuet, 

A-facing  Lady  Kitty, 
Nor  miss  THE  CHIEF — she  hath,  in  brief, 

Her  choice  of  all  the  city. 
****** 
But  in  the  minuet  a  hand 

Shall  touch  her  finger-tips, 
And  almost  to  a  Kiss  shall  turn 

The  Smile  upon  her  lips ; 
And  he  is  but  a  midship  boy, 

And  she  is  Madge  the  Belle ; 
But  never  to  Chief  nor  to  Admiral 

Such  a  tale  her  lips  shall  tell. 
*  *  *  *  *  * 

The  Town  is  at  the  Ball  to-night, 

The  Town  is  at  the  Ball, 
And  the  Town  shall  talk  as  never  before 

Ere  another  night  shall  fall; 
And  men  shall  rave  in  Rector  street, 

And  men  shall  swear  in  Pine, 
And  hearts  shall  break  for  Madge's  sake 

From  Bay  to  City  Line. 


And  Lady  Kit  shall  wring  her  hands, 

And  write  the  tale  to  tell 
(To  that  much  dreaded  Maiden  Aunt 

Who  lives  at  New  Rochelle) 
All  of  a  gallant  Midshipman 

Who  wooed  in  April  weather 
The  Fairest  of  All  at  the  Chieftain's  Ball  — 

And  they  ran  away  together! 

And  from  below  the  music  flowing 

Has  taken  a  measured,  mocking  fall, 
And  forward,  backward,  coming,  going, 

They  dance  the  Minuet  of  the  Ball. 
And  even  as  once  her  grandmama 

Went  flitting  to  and  fro 
In  a  dance  she  danced  with  grandpapa 
One  hundred  years  ago — 
So,  while  the  fiddle-bows  go  up, 
And  the  fiddle-bows  go  down, 
A  daughter  of  mine  with  yellow  hair 
Is  dancing  to  an  old-time  air 

With  the  maids  of  New  York  town. 

And  now  again,  in  cadence  changing, 
The  music  takes  a  waltzing  swing, 

And  sets  an  old  man's  fancies  ranging 
Among  the  tunes  his  memories  sing: 


I  hear  a  sound  of  strings  long  slackened, 

The  hum  of  many  a  stringless  bow 
On  fiddles  broken,  warped  and  blackened 

With  dust  of  years  of  long  ago; 
And  hear  the  waltz  that  thrilled  and  quivered 

Along  the  yearning  pulse  of  youth, 
And  unto  two  dumb  hearts  delivered 

The  message  of  Love's  hidden  truth. 


THE  BALL  — 1861 

TO  the  front  at  morn ! 
To  the  front  at  the  break  of  day ! 

And  the  transport  ship  lies  tossing  on  the  waves  of  the 
lower  bay. 

Her  sails  are  white 
In  the  silver  stream  of  the  moon ; 

The  moon  will  soon  be  red  as  blood,  her  sails  will  be 
reddened  soon. 

To  us  who  go 
Is  given  a  dance  to-night  — 

We  may  clasp  our  arms  around  women  and  gather  the 
strength  to  fight. 


Clasp  Heaven  so  close ! 
Look  in  Love's  eyes  and  part ! 

Will  the  bullet  that  kills  the  body  make  an  end  of  the 
hunger  of  heart  ? 

To  our  breasts  they  strain, 
Beautiful,  warm  with  life  — 

Make  men  of  us  who  would  make  us  heroes  for  mortal 
strife. 

Can  I  hold  you  thus, 
And  release  you,  all  unsaid  ? 

Know  I  shall  want  you,  dead  or  living,  and  dream  you 
may  want  me,  dead? 

The  last,  last  dance  — 
For  the  gray  of  the  morn  is  near  — 
Cling  to  me  once,  till  I  learn  the  tune  that  shall  out- 
sing  Death  at  my  ear  ! 

Cling  to  me  once,  but  once  — 
This  is  my  whole  life's  round  ! 

Give  me  to  face  Death's  silence  this  moment  of  motion 
and  sound. 


Then,  as  the  word  unsaid 
Found  voice  in  the  music's  tone, 

She  looked  in  my  face,  and  I  knew  that  my  soul  should 
not  go  alone. 

And  the  gray  dawn  came, 
But  to  us  had  come  a  light 
To  make  the  face  of  Life  and  the  face  of  Death  shine 

bright. 

****** 
To  the  front  at  morn  ! 
To  the  front  at  the  break  of  day ! 

Farewell,  I  said,  my  Love,  and  love  went  with  me  upon 
my  way. 

So,  through  the  weary  years 
Of  prayers  and  tears 

She  waited  for  me,  till  I  came  at  last; 
Came  when  the  soldier's  work  was  done, 
And  the  one  holy  end  of  war  was  won, 

And  parting-time  was  past. 

And  once  again  the  old  tune,  winging 
Its  way  to  hearts  that  still  were  young, 

Set  brain  and  pulse  and  spirit  swinging, 
And  once  again  to  me  she  clung. 
'3 


And  then  —  but,  ah  !  my  music  's  done  — 

For  this  short  way  I  have  to  go 
An  old  tune  in  my  mind  may  run 

That  she  and  I  once  used  to  know, 
And  make  an  old  man's  memories  stir  — 

But  all  earth's  music  died  with  her. 
But  for  you  below,  my  sweet  — 

You  she  left  me  —  still  for  you 
Bowstrings  quiver,  batons  beat, 

And  the  fiddles  thrill  you  through. 
Yours  it  is  to  dance,  and  still, 

Dancing,  you  may  look  in  eyes 
Quick  to  love  you,  if  you  will  — 

Quick  to  turn  to  high  emprise 
When  the  land  that  gave  them  birth 
Makes  the  test  of  manhood's  worth. 

But,  for  me,  my  music  's  done, — 

I  can  only  sit  and  hear 
Through  your  whirl  of  tunes  the  one 

That  Love  holds  dear. 

While  the  fiddle-bows  go  lip  in  the  air, 

And  the  fiddle-bows  go  down, 
And  the  girl  of  mine  with  the  yellow  hair 
Is  dancing  to  an  old-time  air 

With  the  maids  of  New  York  town. 
14 


"V  ^HERE  'S  but  one  thing  to  sing  about, 
-c       And  poor  's  the  song  that  does  without ; 
And  many  a  song  would  not  live  long 
Were  it  not  for  the  theme  that  is  never  worked  out. 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  NEW  YEAR'S 
CALLERS 

THE  STORY  OF  AN  OLD  MAN,  AN  OLD  MAN'S 
FRIENDSHIP,  AND  A  NEW  CARD-BASKET 

THE  door  is  shut  —  I  think  the  fine  old  face 
Trembles  a  little,  round  the  under  lip; 
His  look  is  wistful  —  can  it  be  the  place 

Where,  at  his  knock,  the  bolt  was  quick  to  slip 
( It  had  a  knocker  then),  when,  bravely  decked, 
He  took,  of  New  Year's,  with  his  lowest  bow, 
His  glass  of  egg-nog,  white  and  nutmeg-flecked, 
From  her  who  is  —  where  is  the  young  bride  now? 

O  Greenwood,  answer !     Through  your  ample  gate 

There  went  a  hearse,  these  many  years  ago ; 
And  often  by  a  grave  —  more  oft  of  late  — 

Stands  an  old  gentleman,  with  hair  like  snow. 
Two  graves  he  stands  by,  truly;  for  the  friend 

Who  won  her,  long  has  lain  beside  his  wife; 
And  their  old  comrade,  waiting  for  the  end, 

Remembers  what  they  were  to  him  in  life. 


And  now  he  stands  before  the  old-time  door, 

A  little  gladdened  in  his  lonely  heart 
To  give  of  love  for  those  that  are  no  more 

To  those  that  live  to-day  a  generous  part. 
Ay,  She  has  gone,  sweet,  loyal,  brave  and  gay  — 

But  then,  her  daughter  's  grown  and  wed  the  while ; 
And  the  old  custom  lingers:  New  Year's  Day, 

Will  not  she  greet  him  with  her  mother's  smile  ? 

But  things  are  changed,  ah,  changed,  you  see ; 
We  keep  no  New  Year's,  now,  not  we  — 

It  's  an  old-time  day, 

And  an  old-time  way, 
And  an  old-time  fashion  we  've  chosen  to  cut  — 

And  the  dear  old  man 

May  wait  as  he  can 
In  front  of  the  old-time  door  that  's  shut. 


MAY-BLOOM 


OH,  for  you  that  I  never  knew !  — 
Now  that  the  Spring  is  swelling, 
And  over  the  way  is  a  whitening  may, 

In  the  yard  of  my  neighbor's  dwelling. 

O  may,  oho !  Do  your  sisters  blow 

Out  there  in  the  country  grasses, 

A-mocking  the  white  of  the  cloudlet  light 
That  up  in  the  blue  sky  passes  ? 

Here  in  town  the  grass  it  is  brown 

Right  under  your  beautiful  clusters ; 

But  your  sisters  thrive  where  the  sward  's  alive 
With  emerald  lights  and  lusters. 

Dream  of  my  dreams !  vision  that  seems 

Ever  to  scorn  my  praying, 
Love  that  I  wait,  face  of  my  fate, 

Come  with  me  now  a-maying. 


Soul  of  my  soul  !  all  my  life  long, 
Looking  for  you  I  wander; 

Long  have  I  sought  —  shall  I  find  naught 
Under  the  may-bushes  yonder? 

Oh,  for  you  that  I  never  knew, 

Only  in  dreams  that  bind  you !  — 

By  Spring's  own  grace  I  shall  know  your  face 
When  under  the  may  I  find  you ! 


THE    LINNET 

ALL  day  he  sat  in  silence, 
In  his  shining  cage  sat  he, 
And  the  day  grew  dim,  but  never  from  him 
Came  a  note  of  melody. 

But  late  at  night  in  silence 

Heart  to  heart  came  He  and  She 

To  the  darkened  room ;  and  out  of  the  gloom 
Came  the  linnet's  melody. 


HEAVE    HO! 

HEAVE  ho !  the  anchor  over  the  bow, 
And  off  to  sea  go  I ; 
The  wild  wind  blows,  and  nobody  knows 

That  I  have  you  always  nigh. 
Right  close  in  my  heart  I  can  keep  you  here 

In  memory  fond  and  true, 

For  there  '11  never  be  one  like  you,  my  dear  — 
There  '11  never  be  one  like  you. 

Oho !  the  billows  of  Biscay  Bay, 

And  the  stars  of  the  southern  sea  ! 
But  the  dark-haired  girls  may  shake  their  curls, 

With  never  a  look  from  me; 
For  the  thought  of  my  love  shall  be  ever  near, 

Though  wide  is  the  ocean  blue, 
And  there  '11  never  be  one  like  you,  my  dear  — 

There  '11  never  be  one  like  you. 


The  end  of  the  world  is  a  weary  way, 

And  I  know  not  where  it  lies, 
And  maidens  fair  may  smile  on  me  there, 

And  girls  with  laughing  eyes; 
But  in  all  the  days  of  all  the  year, 

Though  I  wander  the  whole  world  through, 
There  '11  never  be  one  like  you,  my  dear  — 

There  '11  never  be  one  like  you. 


AN    OLD-FASHIONED    LOVE-SONG 

TELL  me  what  within  her  eyes 
Makes  the  forgotten  Spring  arise, 
And  all  the  day,  if  kind  she  looks, 
Flow  to  a  tune  like  tinkling  brooks; 
Tell  me  why,  if  but  her  voice 
Falls  on  men's  ears,  their  souls  rejoice; 
Tell  me  why,  if  only  she 
Doth  come  into  the  companie, 
All  spirits  straight  enkindled  are, 
As  if  a  moon  lit  up  a  star. 

Tell  me  this  that  's  writ  above, 
And  I  will  tell  you  why  I  love. 

Tell  me  why  the  foolish  wind 
Is  to  her  tresses  ever  kind, 
And  only  blows  them  in  such  wise 
As  lends  her  beauty  some  surprise; 
24 


Tell  me  why  no  changing  year 

Can  change  from  Spring,  if  she  appear; 

Tell  me  why  to  see  her  face 

Begets  in  all  folk  else  a  grace 

That  makes  them  fair,  as  love  of  her 

Did  to  a  gentler  nature  stir. 

Tell  me  why,  if  she  but  go 
Alone  across  the  fields  of  snow, 
All  fancies  of  the  Springs  of  old 
Within  a  lover's  breast  grow  bold ; 
Tell  me  why,  when  her  he  sees, 
Within  him  stirs  an  April  breeze ; 
And  all  that  in  his  secret  heart 
Most  sacredly  was  set  apart, 
And  most  was  hidden,  then  awakes, 
At  the  sweet  joy  her  coming  makes. 

Tell  me  what  is  writ  above, 
And  I  will  tell  you  why  I  love. 


A   LOOK   BACK 

A    CASTLE-YARD  — 1585 

(Enter  SIR  BEVYS,  mounted.     There  comes  to  meet  him, 
bearing  a  cup  of  wine,  MAID  MARGERY.) 

WHAT,  Madge  —  nay,  Madge!  why,  sweetheart,  is 
it  thou? 

Faith,  but  I  knew  thee  not  —  nor  know  thee  yet ! 
Madge — Margery  —  child  —  coz,  thou  'st  grown  apace. 
Why,  what  a  merry  coming  home  is  this! 
To  have  my  cousin  meet  me  in  the  court, 
My  half-grown  cousin,  grown  an  angel  half, 
Lifting  a  cup  to  make  the  wanderer  welcome, 
With  such  an  arm  —  why,  Margery,  't  was  a  reed, 
A  meagre,  sun-specked  reed,  when  last  I  saw  it, 
Three  years  ago  —  coz,  these  were  busy  years 
That  dealt  so  kindly  with  thee.     I  set  forth 
Three  years  agone  last  Michaelmas,  and  thou  — 

26 


Why,  thou  and  Rupert  were  an  elfish  pair 

Of  freckled  striplings  —  yea,  thy  elbows,  Madge, 

My  cousin  Margery,  were  as  rasping  sharp 

As  old  Dame  Ursula  her  tongue  —  ay,  cousin, 

I  '11  drink  once  more,  so  thou  wilt  lift  the  cup 

And  show  that  snowy  round  again.      And  Rupert, 

My  brother  Rupert,  how  fares  he  ?     Nay,  nay ! 

First  in  the  tourney  ?     Sturdiest  Knight  of  all  ? 

Gad's  grace,  the  world  has  wagged  while  I  have  wandered. 

I  '11  tell  thee  this,  thou  Hebe  hazel-eyed, 

Had  I  seen  further  I  had  wandered  less. 

But  who  'd  have  thought  the  slender  girl  I  left, 

The  straggling  weed  —  thy  present  grace  may  pardon 

My  memory  rude  —  had  grown  to  this  fair  flower  — 

To  this  bright  comeliness,  this  young  perfection, 

This  — this  — 

Maid  Margery  let  her  lashes  down, 
And  bent  her  head — perhaps  the  sunset  fell 
A  trifle  'thwart  her  face — perhaps  she  blushed, 
As,  looking  down  into  the  empty  cup, 
She  answered  very  softly : 

"Rupert  did." 


PRUDENCE,  SPINNING 


A  STUDIO   STUDY 


r~\RUDENCE,  sitting  by  the  fire, 
1     Lift  your  head  a  little  higher  — 
How  the  firelight  ripples  in 
And  out  the  dimple  of  your  chin — 
How  your  sidewise-tilted  head 
Snares  the  flickering  gleams  of  red; 
Snares  them  in  a  golden  net 
Than  your  distaff  fleecier  yet ! 
O  my  Prudence,  turn  —  but  no  — 
Shall  a  century  backward  flow? 
Prudence  —  ah,  awelladay  ! 
You  're  a  hundred  years  away. 
28 


II. 

He  who  looks  upon  you  hears 
Through  a  hundred  bygone  years 
Whir  of  wheel  and^  foot's  light  tap 
On  the  treadle,  and  the  snap 
Of  the  rose-red  hickory  logs, 
Sputtering,  sinking  on  the  dogs; 
And  your  breath  he  almost  feels 
In  a  gentle  sigh  that  steals 
From  your  lips,  while  hand  in  head 
Weave  a  dream  and  spin  a  thread — 
Prudence  —  who  'd  believe  it,  pray? 

You  're  a  hundred  years  away. 

*  *  *  * 

Silent  was  the  studio, 
Duller  grew  the  hickory's  glow, 
And  the  skylight,  cold  and  faint, 
Seemed  to  frown—  "T  is  late  to  paint!" 
Prudence  drooped  a  weary  head, 
Hearing  not  the  painter's  tread, 
As  he  crossed  the  room  and  bent 
Just  where  blush  and  firelight  blent. 
O  my  Prudence,  model  fair! 
Where  's  your  prim  provincial  air? 
Prudence  —  ah,  awelladay ! 
How  a  century  slips  away! 
29 


THE    LIGHT 

THERE  is  no  shadow  where  my  love  is  laid; 
For  (ever  thus  I  fancy  in  my  dream, 
That  wakes  with  me  and  wakes  my  sleep)  some  gleam 
Of  sunlight,  thrusting  through  the  poplar  shade, 
Falls  there;  and  even  when  the  wind  has  played 
His  requiem  for  the  Day,  one  stray  sunbeam, 
Pale  as  the  palest  moonlight  glimmers  seem, 
Keeps  sentinel  for  Her  till  starlights  fade. 

And  I,  remaining  here  and  waiting  long, 
And  all  enfolded  in  my  sorrow's  night, 

Who  not  on  earth  again  her  face  may  see, — 
For  even  memory  does  her  likeness  wrong, — 
Am  blind  and  hopeless,  only  for  this  light  — 

This  light,  this  light,  through  all  the  years  to  be. 


T  .TT'HICH  was  the  harder  to  lay  down, 
r  r       Art  and  ambition,  or  a  crown? 
The  sceptre  or  the  fiddle-bow  ? 
I  know  not.     All  were  loath  to  go. 
Yet  who  would  call,  did  Fate  permit, 
One  of  these  back  to  what  he  quit  ? 


GRANT 

SMILE  on,  thou  new-come  Spring  —  if  on  thy  breeze 
The  breath  of  a  great  man  go  wavering  up 
And  out  of  this  world's  knowledge,  it  is  well. 

Kindle  with  thy  green  flame  the  stricken  trees, 

And  fire  the  rose's  many-petaled  cup, 

Let  bough  and  branch  with  quickening  life-blood  swell — 

But  Death  shall  touch  his  spirit  with  a  life 

That  knows  not  years  or  seasons.     Oh,  how  small 

Thy  little  hour  of  bloom  !     Thy  leaves  shall  fall, 

And  be  the  sport  of  winter  winds  at  strife ; 

But  he  has  taken  on  eternity. 

Yea,  of  how  much  this  Death  doth  set  him  free !  — 

Now  are  we  one  to  love  him,  once  again. 

The  tie  that  bound  him  to  our  bitterest  pain 

Draws  him  more  close  to  Love  and  Memory. 

33 


O  Spring,  with  all  thy  sweetheart  frolics,  say, 

Hast  thou  remembrance  of  those  earlier  springs 
When  we  wept  answer  to  the  laughing  day, 

And  turned  aside  from  green  and  gracious  things  ? 
There  was  a  sound  of  weeping  over  all  — 

Mothers  uncomforted,  for  their  sons  were  not ; 

And  there  was  crueler  silence :  tears  grew  hot 
In  the  true  eyes  that  would  not  let  them  fall. 
Up  from  the  South  came  a  great  wave  of  sorrow 

That  drowned   our  hearthstones,   splashed  with  blood 

our  sills ; 
To-day,  that  spared,  made  terrible  To-morrow 

With  thick  presentiment  of  coming  ills. 
Only  we  knew  the  Right  —  but  oh,  how  strong, 
How  pitiless,  how  insatiable  the  Wrong ! 

And  then  the  quivering  sword-hilt  found  a  hand 

That  knew  not  how  to  falter  or  grow  weak ; 

And  we  looked  on,  from  end  to  end  the  land, 

And  felt  the  heart  spring  up,  and  rise  afresh 

The  blood  of  courage  to  the  whitened  cheek, 

And  fire  of  battle  thrill  the  numbing  flesh. 

Ay,  there  was  death,  and  pain,  and  dear  ones  missed, 

And  lips  forever  to  grow  pale  unkissed; 

But  lo,  the  man  was  here,  and  this  was  he ; 

And  at  his  hands  Faith  gave  us  victory. 

34 


Spring,  thy  poor  life,  that  mocks  his  body's  death, 

Is  but  a  candle's  flame,  a  flower's  breath. 

He  lives  in  days  that  suffering  made  dear 

Beyond  all  garnered  beauty  of  the  year. 

He  lives  in  all  of  us  that  shall  outlive 

The  sensuous  things  that  paltry  time  can  give. 

This  Spring  the  spirit  of  his  broken  age 

Across  the  threshold  of  its  anguish  stole  — 
All  of  him  that  was  noble,  fearless,  sage, 

Lives  in  his  loved  nation's  strengthened  soul. 


35 


"LET    US  HAVE  PEACE" 
U.  S.  GRANT  — JULY  23,  1885 


H 


IS  name  was  as  a  sword  and  shield, 

His  words  were  armed  men, 
He  mowed  his  foemen  as  a  field 

Of  wheat  is  mowed — and  then 
Set  his  strong  hand  to  make  the  shorn  earth  smile  again. 

Not  in  the  whirlwind  of  his  fight, 
The  unbroken  line  of  war, 
Did  he  best  battle  for  the  right  — 

His  victory  was  more : 
Peace  was  his  triumph,  greater  for  than  all  before. 

Who  in  the  spirit  and  love  of  peace 

Takes  sadly  up  the  blade, 
Makes  war  on  war,  that  wars  may  cease  — 

He  striveth  undismayed, 
And  in  the  eternal  strength  his  mortal  strength  is  stayed. 


Peace,  that  he  conquered  for  our  sake  — 

This  is  his  honor,  dead. 
We  saw  the  clouds  of  battle  break 

To  glory  o'er  his  head  — 
But  brighter  shone  the  light  about  his  dying  bed. 

Dead  is  thy  warrior,  King  of  Life, 

Take  thou  his  spirit  flown  ; 
The  prayer  of  them  that  knew  his  strife 

Goes  upward  to  thy  throne  — 
Peace  be  to  him  who  fought  —  and  fought  for  Peace  alone. 


37 


THE   BATTLE   OF   APIA  BAY 
MARCH  15,  1889 

THE  portholes  black  look  over  the  bay 
To  the  ports  on  the  other  side ; 
And  the  gun  in  each  grim  square  porthole  dim 
Is  guarding  a  nation's  pride. 

Two  fleets  are  they  in  an  alien  sea, 

And  whether  as  friends  or  foes, 
Till  the  diplomats'  prattle  decides  their  battle, 

Nor  sailor  nor  captain  knows. 

But  strange  to  each  is  the  sun  that  starts 

The  pitch  in  the  white  deck's  seams, 
While  the  watch,  half  dozing  with  eyes  half  closing, 

Go  home  in  their  waking  dreams. 

And  strange  is  the  land  that  lies  about, 

And  the  folk  with  faces  brown, 
To  the  Pommerland  boy  with  the  yellow  beard, 

And  the  boy  from  Portland  town. 

38 


And  each  looks  over  the  bay  to  each- 

Is  the  end  of  it  peace  or  war  ? 
And  the  wish  that  's  best  in  each  brave  young  breast 

Is  the  wish  for  a  run  ashore. 

***** 
Death  came  out  of  the  sea  last  night  — 

Death  is  aboard  this  morn  — 
The  water  is  over  the  war-ship's  prow, 

And  her  snow-white  sails  are  torn. 

And  the  bright  blue  waves  that  leap  to  catch 

The  glint  of  the  tropic  sun 
Roll  overhead,  and  beneath  are  the  dead, 

For  the  battle  is  fought  and  won. 

There  's  the  Pommerland  boy  with  his  yellow  beard, 

And  the  Maine  boy  bearded  brown; 
And  there  's  weeping  sore  on  the  Pommerland  shore; 

There  are  tears  in  Portland  town. 

O  ships  that  guard  two  nations'  pride, 

Death  had  no  need  for  ye ! 
They  went  to  their  fate  through  no  man's  hate  — 

Death's  servant  was  the  Sea. 


39 


WILHELM  I.,  EMPEROR  OF  GERMANY 

MARCH  22,  1797 —JANUARY  2,  1861  —JANUARY  18, 
1871  —MARCH  9,  1888 

WHEN  the  gray  Emperor  at  the  Gates  of  Death 
Stood   silent,    up    from   Earth    there    came   the 

sound 

Of  mourning  and  dismay;  man's  futile  breath 
Vexed  the  still  air  around. 

But  silent  stood  the  Emperor  and  alone 
Before  the  ever  silent  gates  of  stone 

That  open  and  close  at  either  end  of  life ; 
As  who,  having  fought  his  fight, 
Stands,  overtaken  of  night, 

And  hears  afar  the  receding  sound  of  strife. 


Wide  open  swing  the  gates: 

Hail,  Hohenzollern,  hail  to  thee ! 
If  thou  be  he 

For  whom  each  hero  waits, 
Hail,  hail  to  thee ! 


So  rings 

The  chorus  of  the  Kings. 

This  is  the  House  of  Death,  the  Hall  of  Fame, 

Lit,  its  vast  length,  by  torches'  flickering  flame ; 

And,  with  their  faces  by  the  torch-fires  lit, 

Around  the  board  the  expectant  monarchs  sit. 

Filled  are  their  drink-horns  with  the  immortals'  wine 

They  wait  for  him,  the  latest  of  their  line. 


Under  the  flags  they  sit,  beneath 

The  which  the  keen  sword  spurned  its  sheath. 

Under  the  flags  that  first  were  woven 

To  bring  the  fire  to  stranger  eyes; 
That  now,  at  cost  of  corselets  cloven, 

In  lines  of  tattered  trophies  rise. 
To  greet  the  newly  come  they  wait — 
The  heroes  of  the  German  State : 


His  father,  unto  whom  the  west  wind  blew 

The  echo  of  the  guns  of  Waterloo : 

That  greater  FREDERICK,  with  the  lust  of  power 

Still  smoldering  in  his  eyes,  his  troubled  heart 
Impatient  with  the  briefness  of  his  hour 

That  altered  Europe's  chart: 
And  he,  the  Great  Elector,  he  who  first 

Sounded  to  Poland's  King  a  nation's  word : 

And  he  who,  earlier,  by  Rome  accursed, 

The  trumpet-tone  of  Martin  Luther  heard  — 

So  the  long  line  of  faces  grim 

Grows  faint  and  dim, 
And  at  the  farther  end,  where  lights  burn  low, 

Where,  through  a  misty  glow, 
Heroes  of  German  song  and  story  rise 

Gods  to  our  eyes, 

Great  HERMANN  rises,  father  of  a  race, 
To  give  the  Emperor  his  place. 

"  Come  to  the  table's  head, 

Among  the  ennobled  dead  !  " 
He  cries:  "Nor  none  shall  ask  me  of  thy  right." 

Then  speaks  he  to  the  board  : 

"  Bow  down,  in  one  accord, 
To  him  whose  strength  is  Majesty,  not  Might. 


"  Emperor  and  King  he  comes ;  his  people's  cry 

Pierces  our  distant  sky ; 

Emperor  and  King  he  comes,  whose  mighty  hand 
Gathered  in  one  the  kingdoms  of  the  land. 

Yet  greater  far  the  tale  shall  be 

That  gains  him  immortality : 
To  his  high  task  no  selfish  thought, 
No  coward  hesitance  he  brought ; 
All  that  it  was  to  be  a  King 

He  was,  nor  counted  of  the  cost. 
He  rounds  our  circle  —  Time  may  bring 
The  day  when  Earth  shall  need  no  King  — 

All  that  Kings  were,  in  him  Earth  lost." 

"Hail,  Hohenzollern,  hail!"  cried  the  heroes  dead; 
And  the  gray  Emperor  sat  at  the  table's  head. 


43 


GENERAL   SHERMAN 
FEBRUARY  14,  1891 

BOWED  banners  and  the  drums'  thick  muffled  beat 
For  him,  and  silent  crowds  along  the  street; 
The  stripes  of  white  and  crimson  on  his  breast, 
And  all  the  trapping  of  a  warrior's  rest; 
For  him  the  wail  of  dirges,  and  the  tread 
Of  the  vast  army  following  its  dead 
Unto  the  great  surrender ;  half-mast  high 
For  him  the  flags  shall  brave  the  winter  sky  — 
These  be  his  honors :  and  some  old  eyes  dim 
For  love's  sake,  more  than  fame's  —  for  him,  for  him ! 

These  things  are  his;  yet  not  to  him  alone 
Is  this  proud  wealth  of  ordered  honor  shown. 
Thus  to  their  graves  may  go  all  men  who  stand 
Between  their  country  and  the  foeman's  brand : 


This  is  the  meed  of  hardihood  in  fight, 

The  formal  tribute  to  a  hero's  might. 

A  myriad  dead  have  won  the  like  award — 

The  unknown,  unnumbered  servants  of  the  sword. 

Hath  he  no  greater  honor? 

Yes,  although 

It  win  for  his  dead  clay  no  funeral  show, 
Nor  none  shall  tell  upon  the  market-place 
What  gave  this  hero  his  most  special  grace, 
That  for  his  memory,  in  the  years  to  come, 
Shall  speak  more  loud  than  voice  of  gun  or  drum. 
Great  was  his  soul  in  fight.     But  you  and  I, 
Friend,  if  need  be,  can  set  a  face  to  die. 
This  land  of  ours  has  lovers  now  as  then, 
Nor  shall  time  coming  find  her  poor  in  men, 
While  the  strong  blood  of  our  old  Saxon  strain 
Fires  at  the  sound  of  war  in  pulse  and  vein. 

But  this  great  warrior  was  in  Peace  more  great, 

More  noble  in  his  fealty  to  the  state, 

More  fine  in  service,  in  a  subtler  way 

Meeting  the  vital  duty  of  the  day ; 

Patient  and  calm,  too  simply  proud  to  strive 

To  keep  the  glory  of  his  past  alive. 

45 


So  burns  it  still,  and  shall  burn.     Every  year 
Of  that  high  service  made  him  but  more  dear, 
More  trusted,  more  revered.     No  lust  of  power 
Led  him  to  lengthen  out  the  battle  hour; 
He  sought  no  office ;  he  would  learn  no  art 
To  serve  him  at  the  polls  or  in  the  mart; 
And  yet  he  loved  the  people,  nor  did  pride 
Lead  him  from  common  joys  and  cares  aside. 
His  kindly,  homely,  grizzled  face  looked  down 
On  all  the  merrymaking  of  the  town  — 
A  face  that  we  shall  miss :  we  all  were  proud 
When  the  Old  General  smiled  upon  the  crowd. 
So  lived,  so  died  he.     Has  a  great  man  passed 
And  left  a  life  more  whole  unto  the  last? 

Upon  the  soldier's  coffin  let  this  wreath 

Tell  of  his  greatest  greatness,  sword-in-sheath. 


LEOPOLD    DAMROSCH 

FEBRUARY  15,  1885 

WAKED  at  the  waving  of  thy  hand,  so  near 
Came  music  to  the  language  of  the  soul  — 
Not  viol  alone,  or  flute :  an  ordered  whole, 
That  with  one  voice  spoke  to  us,  subtly  clear  — 
So  near  it  came  to  all  that  life  holds  dear, 
So  full  it  was  of  messages  that  stole 
Silently  to  the  spirit  —  of  the  roll 
Of  thunders  that  the  heart  leaped  up  to  hear  — 
That  we,  who  look  upon  the  fallen  hand 
That  shall  not  rise  for  music's  sake  again 

Upon  this  earth  —  we,  lingering,  well  may  deem 
Thee  glad  with  a  great  joy,  to  understand, 
At  last,  the  full  and  all-revealing  strain 

That  tells  what  earthly  music  may  but  dream. 


J.  B. 

JUNE  7,  1880. 

THE  Actor  's  dead,  and  memory  alone 
Recalls  the  genial  magic  of  his  tone ; 
Marble  nor  canvas  nor  the  printed  page 
Shall  tell  his  genius  to  another  age : 
A  memory,  doomed  to  dwindle  less  and  less, 
His  world-wide  fame  shrinks  to  this  littleness. 
Yet  if,  a  half  a  century  from  to-day, 
A  tender  smile  about  our  old  lips  play, 
And  if  our  grandchild  query  whence  it  came, 
We  '11  say:   "A  thought  of  Brougham."  — 

And  that  is  Fame  ! 


/SERVE  with  love  a  goodly  craft, 
And  proud  thereat  am  I ; 
And,  if  I  do  but  work  aright, 
Shall  never  wholly  die. 


MY   SHAKSPERE 

WITH  beveled  binding,  with  uncut  edge, 
With  broad  white  margin  and  gilded  top, 

Fit  for  my  library's  choicest  ledge, 

Fresh  from  the  bindery,  smelling  of  shop, 

In  tinted  cloth,  with  a  strange  design  — 

Buskin  and  scroll-work  and  mask  and  crown, 
And  an  arabesque  legend  tumbling  down  — 

"The  Works  of  Shakspere  "  were  never  so  fine. 

Fresh  from  the  shop  !    I  turn  the  page  — 
Its  "  ample  margin  "  is  wide  and  fair, 
Its  type  is  chosen  with  daintiest  care ; 
There  's  a  "New  French  Elzevir"  strutting  there 

That  would  shame  its  prototypic  age. 

Fresh  from  the  shop  !     O  Shakspere  mine, 

I  've  half  a  notion  you  're  much  too  fine  ! 

There  's  an  ancient  volume  that  I  recall, 
In  foxy  leather  much  chafed  and  worn ; 

Its  back  is  broken  by  many  a  fall, 

The  stitches  are  loose  and  the  leaves  are  torn  ; 


And  gone  is  the  bastard  title,  next 

To  the  title-page  scribbled  with  owners'  names, 
That  in  straggling  old-style  type  proclaims 

That  the  work  is  from  the  corrected  text 
Left  by  the  late  Geo.  Steevens,  Esquire. 

The  broad  sky  burns  like  a  great  blue  fire, 
And  the  Lake  shines  blue  as  shimmering  steel, 

And  it  cuts  the  horizon  like  a  blade; 

And  behind  the  poplar  's  a  strip  of  shade  — 

The  great  tall  Lombardy  on  the  lawn. 
And,  lying  there  in  the  grass,  I  feel 

The  wind  that  blows  from  the  Canada  shore, 

And  in  cool,  sweet  puffs  comes  stealing  o'er, 

Fresh  as  any  October  dawn. 

I  lie  on  my  breast  in  the  grass,  my  feet 
Lifted  boy-fashion,  and  swinging  free, 
The  old  brown  Shakspere  in  front  of  me. 

And  big  are  my  eyes,  and  my  heart  's  a-beat; 

And  my  whole  soul  's  lost  —  in  what?  —  who  knows? 

Perdita's  charms  or  Perdita's  woes  — 

Perdita  fairy-like,  fair  and  sweet. 

Is  any  one  jealous,  I  wonder,  now, 
Of  my  love  for  Perdita  ?     For  I  vow 
I  loved  her  well.     And  who  can  say 
That  life  would  be  quite  the  same  life  to-day  — 
52 


That  Love  would  mean  so  much,  if  she 
Had  not  taught  me  its  A  B  C  ? 

The  Grandmother,  thin  and  bent  and  old, 

But  her  hair  still  dark  and  her  eyes  still  bright, 

Totters  around  among  the  flowers  — 
Old-fashioned  flowers  of  pink  and  white ; 

And  turns  with  a  trowel  the  dark  rich  mold 

That  feeds  the  blooms  of  her  heart's  delight. 
Ah  me  !    for  her  and  for  me  the  hours 

Go  by,  and  for  her  the  smell  of  earth  — 

And  for  me  the  breeze  and  a  far  love's  birth, 
And  the  sun  and  the  sky  and  all  the  things 
That  a  boy's  heart  hopes  and  a  poet  sings. 

Fresh  from  the  shop  !    O  Shakspere  mine, 
It  was  n't  the  binding  made  you  divine  ! 
I  knew  you  first  in  a  foxy  brown, 
In  the  old,  old  home,  where  I  laid  me  down, 

In  the  idle  summer  afternoons, 
With  you  alone  in  the  odorous  grass, 

And  set  your  thoughts  to  the  wind's  low  tunes, 
And  saw  your  children  rise  up  and  pass  — 
And  dreamed  and  dreamed  of  the  things  to  be, 
Known  only,  I   think,  to  you  and  me. 

I  've  hardly  a  heart  for  you  dressed  so  fine  — 
Fresh  from  the  shop,  O  Shakspere  mine  ! 


ON    SEEING    MAURICE    LELOIR'S 

ILLUSTRATIONS    TO    STERNE'S 

"SENTIMENTAL  JOURNEY" 

TELOIR,  what  kinship  lies  between  you  two  — 
L<  This  century-vanished  Englishman  and  you  ?  — 
You  who  can  lead  us,  grateful  in  surprise, 
All  that  he  saw  to  see  with  trusting  eyes  — 
Nay,  at  your  beck  his  head  peeps,  gaunt  and  hoar, 
Out  of  the  window  in  the  po'chaise  door. 

Is  it  not  this :  birth  made  him  of  your  race 
(Though  Clonmel  and  not  Calais  were  the  place,) 
If  heart  and  fancy  be  the  best  of  birth  ? 

Some  day,  Leloir,  your  spirit,  freed  from  earth, 

Walking  that  special  heaven  set  apart 

For  those  who  made  religion  of  their  art, 

Will  meet  this  elder  friend,  and  he  will  turn 

And  speak  to  you  in  French — this  Laurence  Sterne. 

54 


TO  A  READER  OF  THE  XXIst  CENTURY 

YOU,  when  you  read  this  book,  shall  find 
How  You  or  We  have  fallen  behind. 
Where'er  you  be,  I  know  you  not; 
But,  if  my  memory  be  forgot, 
Remember,  proud  of  life  and  thought 
Though  You  may  strut,  /  hold  you  naught. 
You  are  not  yet  —  you  may  be  —  still, 
How  do  I  know  you  ever  will? 

But  yet  I  hope,  in  future  days, 

You  may  exist,  to  cast  your  gaze 

Round  some  old  bibliomaniac's  room, 

Shrouded  in  sober  russet  gloom, 

And  let  it  fall  upon  this  book; 

Then  turn  this  page  —  I  '11  catch  your  look. 

Aye !  though  the  while  this  line  you  read 

A  coverlet  of  daisy  brede 

Shall  lie  my  old-time  bed  above 

And  all  that  was  my  life  and  love; 

55 


I  speak  to  you  from  out  a  day 

When  7,  not  You,  can  see  the  Play, 

And  find  the  stage's  mimicry 

More  real  than  are   You  to  Me. 

When  blood  went  slipping  through  this  heart, 

I  saw  it  all  —  I  was  a  part. 

This  is  our  day  —  you  turn  the  page, 

And  see  the  pictures  of  our  age. 

"A  treasure!"  cries  your  bibliopole, 

With  fervor  in  his  musty  soul : 

"A  Daly  private  print  —  a  chaste 

Example  of  our  fathers'  taste. 

They  made  books  then  —  who  can,  in  our 

Degenerate  days  of — magnet  —  power? 

See — Ada  Rehan,  Fisher,  Drew, 

Dame  Gilbert,   Lewis  —  through  and  through 

The  sharp-cut  plates  are  clear  as  new!" 

Then  comes  the  old,  the  tardy  praise  — 

"Those  were  the  drama's  palmy  days." 

But  We?     You  '11  see  the  shadow  —  now 
To  us  these  living  creatures  bow, 
For  us  they  smile  —  for  us  they  feign 
Or  love  or  hatred,  joy  or  pain ; 
For  us  this  white  breast  heaves  —  this  voice 
Makes  hearts  too  young  too  much  rejoice; 
56 


T^OWEN. 

For  us  those  splendid  eyes  are  lit; 
For  us  awakes  embodied  wit; 
For  us  the  music  and  the  light  — 
The  listening  faces,  flushed  and  bright; 
The  glow,  the  passion,  and  the  dream  — 
To  you  —  how  far  it  all  must  seem  ! 

You  know  the  names  —  but  we  behold, 

In  sweet  old  age  that  is  not  old, 

Though  Time  play  tricks  with  face  and  hair, 

Our  Gentlewoman  past  compare. 

We  see  her  deftly  thread  the  set 

Old  figures  of  the  minuet ; 

We  see  her  Partner's  snow-crowned  face 

Bent  o'er  her  hand  in  antique  grace. 

You  know  the  names — before  our  eyes 
Proud  Katherine's  anger  flames  and  dies; 
For  us  Petruchio  pays  his  court; 
For  us  the  high  tempestuous  port, 
Lowered  at  last  in  humble,  sweet 
Submission  at  a  husband's  feet. 
You  know  the  names  —  but  ah  !  who  hears 
The  laughter  when  one  face  appears? 

You  know  the  names  —  but  what  are  they  ? 
We  know  the  folk  that  make  the  Play  ! 

57 


Love's  merry  Up,  Love's  doleful  Down, 
The  fickle  fashion  of  the  town 
Take  form  and  shape  for  us,  and  show 
To  heart  and  eye  the  world  we  know. 

You  have  the  pictures,  and  the  names 
That  are  but  Yours  as  they  are  Fame's: 
See  them,  O  dim  Potential  Shade, 
Even  as  we  see  them  now  arrayed : 
Try  to  put  nature's  vital  hue 
Into  the  faces  that  you  view ; 
And  think,  while  Fancy  labors  thus, 
This  all  is  breathing  Life  to  Us. 


FOR    AN    OLD    POET 

WHEN  he  is  old  and  past  all  singing, 
Grant,  kindly  Time,  that  he  may  hear 
The  rhythm  through  joyous  Nature  ringing, 
Uncaught  by  any  duller  ear. 

Grant  that,  in  memory's  deeps  still  cherished, 
Once  more  may  murmur  low  to  him 

The  winds  that  sung  in  years  long  perished, 
Lit  by  the  suns  of  days  grown  dim. 

Grant  that  the  hours  when  first  he  listened 
To  bird-songs  manhood  may  not  know, 

In  fields  whose  dew  for  lovers  glistened, 
May  come  back  to  him  ere  he  go. 

Grant  only  this,  O  Time  most  kindly, 

That  he  may  hear  the  song  you  sung 

When  love  was  new  —  and,  barkening  blindly, 
Feign  his  o'er-wearied  spirit  young. 

With  sound  of  rivers  singing  round  him, 
On  waves  that  long  since  flowed  away, 

Oh,  leave  him,  Time,  where  first  Love  found  him, 
Dreaming  To-morrow  in  To-day ! 

59 


WILKIE   COLLINS 
SEPTEMBER  23,  1889 

WHEN  Arabs  sat  around 
And  heard  the  Thousand  Nights  — 
Beyond  the  tent's  close  bound, 

Beyond  the  watch-fire  lights  — 
Their  believing  spirits  flew 

To  a  land  where  strange  things  seem 
As  simple  things  and  true, 

And  the  best  truth  is  a  dream. 

And  when  the  tale  was  told  — 

Genie  and  Princess  fair 
Brought  to  an  end  —  their  gold 

They  sought,  with  an  absent  air; 
And  dropped  it  at  His  feet 

Who  had  led  to  the  land  of  Delight ; 
And,  dreaming  of  Princesses  sweet, 

They  passed  out  into  the  night. 
60 


So,  still  under  your  spell, 

Teller  of  magic  tales, 
These  lines  I  would  fain  let  tell 

The  debt  whose  payment  fails. 
Take  them :  if  they  were  gold 

'T  would  but  discharge  a  due- 
And,  for  the  tales  you  told, 

I  shall  remember  you. 


5r 


FOR  C.  J.  T.,  CONCERNING   A.  D 

HERE  shall  you  see  the  sweetest  mind 
That  loves  our  simpler  humankind: 
The  things  that  touch  your  heart  and  mine 
He  knows  by  sympathy  so  fine 
That  he,  an  alien,  over  sea, 
Partner  in  our  best  thought  can  be. 
Not  the  ATLANTIC'S  swell  and  moan 
Can  part  his  fancy  from  our  own. 
*  *  *  * 

See  but  a  child  with  wistful  eyes 
THE  DOCTOR'S  gloomy  windows  rise, 
And  that  sad  comedy  is  played 
That  makes  us  love  one  little  maid : 
See  the  kind  face  we  children  knew, 
And  PRUDENCE  is  our  "Aunty,"  too; 
Think  of  the  madcap  loves  of  youth, 
And  think  of  BELL,  LOUISE,  and  RUTH 
Think  of  the  loves  not  Love,  alas ! 
And  of  ROSINE  in  Mont  Parnasse: 
Dream  of  the  things  most  sweet  and  true 
That  your  best  moments  bring  to  you, 
And  find  this  gentle  Poet's  art 
Voices  the  thought  that  stirred  your  heart. 
62 


EDMUND    CLARENCE   STEDMAN 

THOUGH  to  his  song  the  reeds  respondent  rustle 
That  cradled  Pan  what  time  all  song  was  young, 
Though  in  a  new  world  city's  restless  bustle 

He  sounds  a  lyre  in  fields  Sicilian  strung; 
Though  his  the  power  the  days  of  old  to  waken, 

Though  Nature's  melody  's  as  clear  to  him 
As  ere  of  dryads  were  the  woods  forsaken, 

And  the  fresh  world  of  myth  grew  faint  and  dim  — 
A  dearer  grace  is  his  when  men's  eyes  glisten 

With  closer  sympathies  his  page  above, 
And  near  his  spirit  draws  to  hearts  that  listen 

The  song  that  sweetly  rounds  with  Home  and  Love. 

NEW  YORK,  December  10,  1884. 


AN    EPISTLE 

To  MASTER  BRANDER  MATTHEWS,  WRITER,  ON  THE 

OCCASION  OF  HIS  PUTTING  FORTH  A  BOOK 

ENTITLED  "PEN  AND  INK" 

NEW  LONDON,  CONN.,  SEPT.  10,  1888. 
Dear  Brander: 

I  have  known  thee  long,  and  found 
Thee  wise  in  council,  and  of  judgment  sound; 
Steadfast  in  friendship,  sound  and  clear  in  wit, 
And  more  in  virtues  than  may  here  be  writ. 
But  most  I  joy,  in  these  machine-made  days, 
To  see  thee  constant  in  a  craftsman's  ways  ; 
That  the  plain  tool  that  knew  thy  'prentice  hand 
Gathers  no  rust  upon  thy  writing-stand; 
That  no  Invention  saves  the  labor  due 
To  any  Task  that  's  worth  the  going  through  ; 
That  now  when  butter  snubs  the  stranger  churn, 
Plain  pen  and  ink  still  serve  a  writer's  turn. 
TJwugh  I,  more  firmly  orthodox,  still  hold, 
In  dire  default  of  quills,  to  steel  or  gold, 
And  thotigh  thy  pen  be  rubber —  let  it  pass  — 
A  breath  of  blemish  on  thy  soul's  clear  glass. 

64 


There  w  no  "  writing  fluid "  in  thy  pot, 
But  honest  ink  of  nutgall  brew,   God  wot  / 
Thou  dost  not  an  electric  needle  ply, 
And,  like  a  housewife  with  an  apple-pie, 
Prick  thy  fair  page  into  a  stencil-plate  — 
Then  daub  with  lampblack  for  a  duplicate. 
Nor  thine  the  sloven  page  whereon  the  shirk 
With  the  rough  tool  attempts  the  finished  work, 
And  introdiices  to  the  sight  of  men 
The  Valet  Pencil  for  the  Master  Pen. 


Not  all  like  thee,  in  this  uneasy  age, 
When  more  by  trick  than  toil  we  earn  our  wage! 
Here  by  the  sea  a  gentle  poet  dwells, 
And  in  fair  leisure  weaves  his  magic  spells  ; 
And  yet  doth  dare  with  countenance  serene 
To  weave  them  on  a  tinkling  steel  machine, 
Where  an  impertinent  and  soulless  bell 
Rings,  at  each  finished  line,  a  jangling  knell. 
The  muse  and  I,  we  love  him,  and  I  think 
She  may  forgive  his  slight  to  pen  and  ink, 
And  let  no  dull  mechanic  cam  or  cog 
The  lightsome  movement  of  his  metres  clog  ; 
But  oh  !  I  grieve  to  see  his  fingers  toy 
With  this  base  slave  in  dalliance  close  and  coy, 
65 


While  in  his  standish  dries  the  atrid  spring 

Where  hides  the  shyer  muse  that  loves  to  sing. 

Give  me  the  old-time  ink,  black,  flowing,  free, 

And  give,  oh,  give!  the  old  goose-quill  to  me  — 

The  goose-quill,  whispering  of  humility. 

It  whispers  to  the  bard:   "Fly  not  too  high! 

You  flap  your  wings  —  remember,  so  could  I. 

I  cackled  in  my  life-time,  it  is  true  ; 

But  yet  again  remember,  so  do  You. 

And  there  were  some  things  possible  to  me 

That  possible  to  you  will  never  be. 

I  stood  for  hours  on  one  columnar  leg, 

And,  if  my  sex  were  such,  could  lay  an  egg. 

Oh,  well  for  you,  if  you  coiild  thus  beget 

Material  for  your  morning  omelette ; 

Or,  if  things  came  to  such  a  desperate  pass, 

You  could  in  calm  contentment  nibble  grass  ! 

Conceited  bard!  and  can  you  sink  to  rest 

Upon  the  feather-pillow  of  your  breast?" 


Hold,  my  dear  Brander,  to  your  pot  of  ink: 
The  muse  sits  poised  upon  that  fountain 's  brink. 
And  that  you  long  may  live  to  hold  a  pen 
I  'II  breathe  a  prayer  j 

The  world  will  say  "  Amen  !  " 

66 


ON    READING   CERTAIN    PUBLISHED 
LETTERS    OF   W.  M.  T. 

IT  is  as  though  the  gates  of  heaven  swung, 
Once  only,  backward,  and  a  spirit  shone 
Upon  us,  with  a  face  to  which  there  clung 

Naught  of  that  mortal  veil  which  sore  belies, 
But  looked  such  love  from  such  high-changed  eyes, 
That,  even  from  earth,  we  knew  them  for  his  own. 

Knew  them  for  his,  and  marveled ;  for  he  came 
Among  us,  and  went  from  us,  and  we  knew 

Only  the  smoke  and  ash  that  hid  the  flame, 
Only  the  cloak  and  vestment  of  his  soul; 
And  knew  his  priesthood  only  by  his  stole  — 

And,  thus  unknown,  he  went  his  journey  through. 

Yet  there  were  some  who  knew  him,  though  his  face 
Was  never  seen  by  them ;  although  his  hand 

Lay  never  warm  in  theirs,  they  yet  had  grace 
To  see,  past  all  misjudgment ;    his  true  heart 
Throbbed  for  them  in  the  creatures  of  his  art, 

And  they  could  read  his  words,  and  understand. 

67 


T{Ol¥  EN 

All  men  may  know  him  now,  and  know  how  kind 
The  hand  in  chastisement  so  sure  and  strong  — 

All  men  may  know  him  now,  and  dullards  blind 
Into  the  secrets  of  his  soul  may  see ; 
And  all  shall  love — but,  Steadfast  Greatheart,  we, 

We  knew  thee  when  the  wide  world  did  thee  wrong. 


es 


r~^  A  YS  the  Man  in  the  Moon,  "It's  a  fine  world  there  "; 
vj   But  he  wonders  hmv  it  can  please  us 
To  walk  with  our  heads  hanging  down  in  the  air — 
For  that  is  the  way  he  sees  us. 


CHAKEY    EINSTEIN 

PHARAOH,  King  of  Egypt's  land, 
Held  you  in  his  cruel  hand, 
Till  the  Appointed  of  the  Lord 
Led  you  forth  and  drowned  his  horde. 
Cushan,  Eglon's  Moabites, 
Jabin,  then  the  Midianites, 
Ammonite  and  Philistine 
Held  you,  by  decree  divine. 
Shishak  spoiled  you  —  but  the  list 
Fades  in  dim  tradition's  mist  — 
And  on  history's  page  we  see 
One  long  tale  of  misery, 
Century  after  century  through  — 
Chains  and  lashes  for  the  Jew. 
Haman  and  Antiochus, 
Herod,  Roman  Socius, 
Spoiled  you,  crushed  you,  various  ways, 
Till  the  dawn  of  Christian  days ; 
71 


Since  which  time  your  wrongs  and  shame 
Have  remained  about  the  same. 
Whipped  and  chained,  your  teeth  pulled  out 
English  cat  and  Russian  knout 
Made  familiar  with  your  back  — 
When  you  were  n't  upon  the  rack  — 
Marked  for  scorn  of  Christian  men; 
Pilfered,  taxed,  and  taxed  again ; 
Pilloried,  prisoned,  burnt  and  stoned, 
Stripped  of  even  the  clothes  you  owned ; 
Child  of  Torture,  Son  of  Shame, 
Robbed  of  even  a  father's  name  — 
In  this  year  of  Christian  grace, 
What  's  your  state  and  what  's  your  place  ? 
Why  you  're  rich  and  strong  and  gay  — 
Chakey  Einstein,  owff  Browdway  ! 


Myriad  signs  along  the  street 
Israelitish  names  repeat. 
Lichtenstein  and  Morgenroth 
Sell  the  pants  and  sell  the  coat; 
Minzesheimer,  Isaacs,   Meyer, 
Levy,  Lehman,  Simon,  Speyer  — 
These  may  just  suggest  a  few 
Specimens  of  Broadway  Jew  — 
72 


And  these  gentlemen  have  made 
Quite  their  own  the  Dry-gootz  Trade. 
Surely  you  're  on  top  to-day, 
Chakey  Einstein,  owff  Browdway. 


Fat  and  rich  you  are,  and  loud; 
Fond  of  being  in  a  crowd; 
Fond  of  diamonds  and  rings; 
Fond  of  haberdashers'  things ; 
Fond  of  color,  fond  of  noise ; 
Fond  of  treating  "owl  der  boys" 
(Yet,  it  's  only  fair  to  state, 
For  yourself,  most  temperate) ; 
Fond  of  women,  fond  of  song ; 
Fond  of  bad  cigars,  and  strong ; 
Fond,  too  much,  of  Brighton's  Race 
(Where  you  're  wholly  out  of  place, 
For  no  Jew  in  Time's  long  course 
Knew  one  thing  about  a  horse) ; 
Fond  of  life,  and  fond  of  fun 
(Once  your  "beezness"  wholly  done); 
Open-handed,  generous,  free, 
Full  of  Christian  charity 
(Far  more  full  than  he  who  pokes 
At  your  avarice  his  jokes) ; 

73 


Fond  of  friends,  and  ever  kind 
To  the  sick  and  lame  and  blind 
(And,  though  loud  you  else  may  be, 
Silent  in  your  charity); 
Fond  of  Mrs.  Einstein  and 
Her  too-numerous  infant  band, 
Ever  willing  they  should  share 
Your  enjoyment  everywhere  — 
What  of  you  is  left  to  say, 
Chakey  Einstein,  owff  Browdway? 

Though  you  're  spurned  in  some  hotels, 

You  have  kin  among  the  swells  — 

Great  musicians,  poets  true, 

Painters,  singers  not  a  few, 

Own  their  cousinship  to  you : 

And  all  England,  so  they  say, 

Yearly  blooms  on  Primrose  Day 

All  in  memory  of  a  Jew 

Of  the  self-same  race  as  you ; 

Greatest  leader  ever  known 

Since  the  Queen  came  to  her  throne; 

Bismarck's  only  equal  foe, 

With  a  thrust  for  every  blow, 

One  who  rose  from  place  to  place 

To  lead  the  Anglo-Saxon  race, 

74 


One  whose  statecraft  wise  and  keen 
Made  an  Empress  of  a  Queen  — 
You  Ve  your  share  in  Primrose  Day, 
Chakey  Einstein,  owff  Browdvvay  ! 


Well,  good  friend,  we  look  at  you 
And  behold  the  Conquering  Jew : 
In  despite  of  all  the  years 
Filled  with  agonies  and  fears ; 
In  despite  of  stake  and  chain ; 
In  despite  of  Rome  and  Spain ; 
'Spite  of  prison,  rack,  and  lash, 
You  are  here,  and  you  've  the  cash : 
You  are  Trade's  uncrowned  king  — 
You  are  mostly  everything  — 
Only  one  small  joke,  O  Jew ! 
Has  the  Christian  world  on  you  — 
When  your  son,  your  first-born  boy, 
Solomon,  your  fond  heart's  joy, 
Grows  to  manhood's  years,  he  '11  wed 
One  a  Christian  born  and  bred; 
Blue  of  blood,  of  lineage  old, 
Who  will  take  him  for  his  gold  — 
That  's  not  all  —  so  far  the  joke 
Is  upon  the  Christian  folk. 

75 


But,  dear  Chakey,  when  he  goes 

In  his  proper  Sabbath  clo'es, 

To  the  House  of  Worship,  he 

And  his  little  family, 

He  will  pass  the  synagogue, 

And  upon  his  way  will  jog 

To  a  Church,  wherein  his  pew 

Will  bear  a  name  unknown  to  you  — 

One  quite  unknown  in  old  B'nai  B'rith  — 

Eynston  maybe  —  maybe  Smith. 

That  's  just  as  sure  as  day  is  day  — 

Chakey  Einstein,  owff  Browdway ! 


A    FABLE    FOR    RULERS 
(FROM  THE  FRENCH) 

A  KING  of  Persia,  once  upon  a  day, 
Rode  with  his  courtiers  to  the  chase  away. 
Thirst  o'ertook  him  in  a  desert  plain, 
Where  he  sought  a  cooling  fount  in  vain. 
Last  he  chanced  upon  a  garden  fine, 
Rich  in  luscious  orange,  grape,  and  pine: 
"  God  forbid  my  thirst  I  slake  ! " 
Quoth  he,  "  for  the  owner's  sake. 
For  if  to  pluck  one  single  fruit  I  dare, 
These  my  viziers  will  lay  the  garden  bare." 


77 


BISMARCK    SOLILOQUIZES 

THE  German  Emperor — that  's  his  title — not 
The  one  that  (thanks  to  me)  his  Grandsire  got- 
Emperor  of  Germany  served  his  father's  turn; 
'T  will  not  serve  his.     Well,  well,  we  live  and  learn. 
I,  in  my  age,  have  learned  one  certain  thing: 
Who  makes  a  king  shall  perish  by  a  king. 

What  else  should  come  of  making  kings  ?     The  best 

Is  but  a  Policy  in  purple  drest. 

I  hatched  this  Policy  within  my  brain : 

But  shall  it  hatch  a  Policy  again? 

I  made  an  Emperor;  made  his  heir,  and  he 

Has  made  an  Emperor  to  make  mock  of  me. 

Is  this  the  way  God  laughs  at  men?  to  spoil 
Their  work,  and  bring  to  nothingness  their  toil? 
To  give  the  seed,  the  wit  to  make  it  grow, 
Patience  to  nurse  this  tree  till  blossoms  blow, 


To  lend  the  fatness  of  the  labored  land, 

And  turn  the  fruit  to  dust  within  the  hand? 

If  so  —  His  ways  shall  not  be  understood  — 

Let  me  laugh,  too.     Surely  the  jest  is  good 

I  have  time  for  laughing  now.     In  days  gone  by 

We  had  no  laughing-times,  my  kings  and  I : 

Nor  did  I  dream  such  gratitude  was  theirs 

To  save  my  latter  years  from  statecraft's  cares, 

And  let  me  sit  in  calm  retirement  down 

To  watch  a  youthful  Emperor  play  the  clown  ! 

Right  well  you  play  it,  William  mine  —  how  well, 

It  takes  a  critic  old  as  I  to  tell. 

No  madder  jest  a  merry  mind  could  plan 

Than  Kings  coquetting  with  the  Laboring  Man. 

A  gay  conceit,  indeed,  it  seems  to  me  — 

That  Congress,  summoned  by  your  high  decree 

To  view  the  woes  of  man,  and  find  a  cure 

For  you  to  guarantee  as  swift  and  sure. 

Nor  did  your  humor  miss  a  happy  chance 

When  you  dispatched  your  Mother  into  France. 

Of  course,  to  give  the  joke  its  subtle  sting, 

A  Grandmother  would  be  the  proper  thing. 

Still,  't  was  amusing  —  and  instructive,  since 

It  shows  just  what  can  make  a  Frenchman  wince, 


Make  his  lip  quiver  and  his  thin  cheek  blanch  — 

A  conqueror's  widow  with  an  olive  branch. 

Oh,  had  she  gone  —  the  jest  to  carry  through  — 

To  see  if  sparks  still  lingered  at  St.  Cloud ! 

Play  your  game  out,  boy :   I  will  look  and  laugh. 

Thresh  over  the  poor  wheat  I  threshed  to  chaff. 

Learn  the  hard  lesson  I  so  long  have  known, 

That  steel  's  the  only  metal  for  a  throne. 

You  are  —  your  guns,  and  nothing  else  on  earth, 

Except  the  brutal  accident  of  birth. 

Think  you  the  golden  years  will  come  again 

When  the  poor  peasants,  fleeing  from  the  plain, 

Huddled  beneath  the  castle  walls,  stretched  hands 

To  pray  the  War  Lord  to  protect  their  lands 

Against  the  alien  plunderer,  kissed  the  sod, 

And  thought  him  regent  of  Almighty  God  ? 

Why,  child,  that  dogma  of  your  heaven-sent  right 

Is,  in  this  day,  a  mere  excuse  polite 

For  owning  cannon;  and  the  more  you  own 

The  more  divine  your  right  is  to  the  throne. 

Think  you  these  people  whose  intelligence 

Fills  you  with  proud  paternal  confidence 

Have  learned — you  let  them  learn  —  to  write  and  read, 

To  find  out  ways  of  bettering  their  breed  — 

Yet  hold  themselves  still  made  for  you  to  bleed? 


And  does  the  spider  educate  the  fly, 

Teaching  him:  "By  this  belly  know  that  I 

Can  chain  you;  this  my  glittering  web  is  set 

To  hold  your  feet  fast  in  a  sticky  net. 

So,  now,  walk  in,  I  pray.     Divinest  Right 

Has  given  me  a  pretty  appetite  !  " 

Madman  and  babe  —  you  send  your  fly  to  school ; 

And  then  expect  your  fly  to  be  your  fool ! 

Play  on,  play  on!    /  kept  your  "right"  alive; 
/  made  a  medieval  dogma  thrive 
On  barren  modern  soil ;  but  my  War  Lord 
In  one  hand  bore  a  whip ;  in  one  a  sword. 
His  Right  men  held  Divine;  his  title  clear — 
Through  gratitude?  through  love?  — hope?  — 
Fool !  through  Fear ! 


81 


IMITATION 

MY  love  she  leans  from  the  window 
Afar  in  a  rosy  land; 
And  red  as  a  rose  are  her  blushes, 
And  white  as  a  rose  her  hand. 

And  the  roses  cluster  around  her, 
And  mimic  her  tender  grace; 

And  nothing  but  roses  can  blossom 
Wherever  she  shows  her  face. 

I  dwell  in  a  land  of  winter, 

From  my  love  a  world  apart  — 

But  the  snow  blooms  over  with  roses 
At  the  thought  of  her  in  my  heart. 

*  «  »  *  * 

This  German  style  of  poem 

Is  uncommonly  popular  now; 

For  the  worst  of  us  poets  can  do  it  — 
Since  Heine  showed  us  how. 
82 


"MAGDALENA" 

SAT  we  'neath  the  dark  verandah, 
Years  and  years  ago; 
And  I  softly  pressed  a  hand  a 

Deal  more  white  than  snow. 
And  I  cast  aside  my  reina, 

As  I  gazed  upon  her  face, 
And  I  read  her  "  Magdalena," 

While  she  smoothed  her  Spanish   lace 
Read  her  Waller's  "Magdalena" — 

She  had  Magdalena's  grace. 
Read  her  of  the  Spanish  duel, 
Of  the  brother,  courtly,  cruel, 
Who  between  the  British  wooer 

And  the  Seville  lady  came ; 
How  her  lover  promptly  slew  her 

Brother,  and  then  fled  in  shame  — 
How  he  dreamed,  in  long  years  after, 
Of  the  river's  rippling  laughter  — 
83 


Of  the  love  he  used  to  know 
In  the  myrtle-curtained  villa 
Near  the  city  of  Sevilla 

Years  and  years  ago. 

Ah,  how  warmly  was  I  reading, 

As  I  gazed  upon  her  face ! 
And  my  voice  took  tones  of  pleading, 

For  I  sought  to  win  her  grace. 
Surely,  thought  I,  in  her  veins 
Runs  some  drop  of  foreign  strains  — 
There    is  something  half  Castilian 
In  that  lip  that  shames  vermilion; 
In  that  mass  of  raven  tresses, 
Tossing  like  a  falcon's  jesses; 
In  that  eye  with  trailing  lashes, 
And  its  witching  upward  flashes  — 

Such,  indeed,  I  know, 
Shone  where  Guadalquivir  plashes 
Years  and. years  ago. 

Looking  in  her  face  I  read  it  — 

How  the  metre  trips!  — 
And  the  god  of  lovers  sped  it 

On  my  happy  lips  — 
84 


All  those  words  of  mystic  sweetness 

Spoke  I  with  an  airy  neatness, 

As  I  never  had  before  — 

As  I  cannot  speak  them  more  — 

Reja,  plaza,  and  mantilla, 

"No  palabras"  and  Sevilla, 

Caballero  and  sombrero, 

And  duenna  and  Duero, 

Spada,  senor,  sabe  Dios  — 

Smooth  as  pipe  of  Meliboeus  — 

Ah,  how  very  well  I  read  it, 

Looking  in  her  lovely  eyes ! 
When  't  was  o'er,  I  looked  for  credit, 

As  she  softly  moved  to  rise. 
*  #  *  *  * 

Doting  dream,  ah,  dream  fallacious  — 

Years  and  years  ago ! — 
For  she  only  said:   "My  gracious  — 

What  a  lot  of  French  you  know !  " 


71    /t "A  Y  the  light  of  some  morning  skies 
2  rJ.     In  days  ivhen  the  sun  knew  how  to  rise, 
Stay  with  my  spirit  until  I  go 
To  be  the  boy  that  I  used  to  know. 


"ONE,    TWO,   THREE!" 

IT  was  an  old,  old,  old,  old  lady, 
And  a  boy  that  was  half-past  three; 
And  the  way  that  they  played  together 
Was  beautiful  to  see. 

She  could  n't  go  running  and  jumping, 
And  the  boy,  no  more  could  he; 

For  he  was  a  thin  little  fellow, 

With  a  thin  little  twisted  knee. 

They  sat  in  the  yellow  sunlight, 

Out  under  the  maple-tree; 
And  the  game  that  they  played  I  '11  tell  you, 

Just  as  it  was  told  to  me. 

It  was  Hide-and-Go-Seek  they  were  playing, 
Though  you  'd  never  have  known  it  to  be- 

With  an  old,  old,  old,  old  lady, 
And  a  boy  with  a  twisted  knee. 
89 


The  boy  would  bend  his  face  down 
On  his  one  little  sound  right  knee, 

And  he  'd  guess  where  she  was  hiding, 
In  guesses  One,  Two,  Three! 

"  You  are  in  the  china-closet !  " 

He  would  cry,  and  laugh  with  glee  — 

It  was  n't  the  china-closet; 

But  he  still  had  Two  and  Three. 

"  You  are  up  in  Papa's  big  bedroom, 

In  the  chest  with  the  queer  old  key  ! " 

And  she  said:    "You  are  warm  and  wanner; 
But  you  're  not  quite  right,"  said  she. 

"It  can't  be  the  little  cupboard 

Where  Mama's  things  used  to  be  — • 

So  it  must  be  the  clothes-press,  Gran'ma ! " 
And  he  found  her  with  his  Three. 

Then  she  covered  her  face  with  her  fingers, 
That  were  wrinkled  and  white  and  wee, 

And  she  guessed  where  the  boy  was  hiding, 
With  a  One  and  a  Two  and  a  Three. 
90 


And  they  never  had  stirred  from  their  places, 

Right  under  the  maple-tree  — 
This  old,  old,  old,  old  lady, 

And  the  boy  with  the  lame  little  knee  — 
This  dear,  dear,  dear  old  lady, 

And  the  boy  who  was  half-past  three. 


THE    LITTLE    SHOP 

Air:  The  Bailiff's  Daughter  of  Islington 

I   KNOW  a  shop,  and  a  funny  little  shop, 
In  a  street  that  lies  anigh; 
And  I  saw  the  sign  set  on  the  door, 

One  day  as  I  went  by. 
And  oh !  it  was  so  poor  and  small 

I  could  not  help  but  stop, 
As  you  would  stop,  if  you  should  come 
On  such  a  little  shop. 

I  went  inside,  and  found  a  little  boy, 

Far  older,   I  am  sure,  than  I ; 
He  said  to  me:  "Kind  sir,  what  toy 

Will  you  kindly  be  pleased  to  buy  ? " 
And  I  bought  a  horse  that  was  painted  so  red 

As  never  was  charger  yet; 
One  penny,  one  penny  was  all  I  paid 

That  splendid  horse  to  get. 

M 


For  pity  of  them  that  were  so  poor 

I  bought  me  a  host  of  things: 
A  Noah's  Ark  without  a  roof; 

A  dove  without  its  wings ; 
A  little  trumpet  made  of  tin, 

That  cost  a  single  cent  — 
And  all  the  time  that  little  boy 

Knew  just  how  my  money  went. 

He  was,  oh  !  so  old,  this  funny  little  boy, 

And  so  sober  and  so  kind : 
He  sold  a  five-cent  doll  for  three, 

Because  one  eye  was  blind. 
And,  oh !  how  proud  he  was  to  sell 

Each  poor  and  petty  toy, 
For  he  was  left  to  keep  the  shop, 

This  poor  little  old-time  boy. 

There  is  a  babe,  and  a  well-beloved  babe, 

A  babe  that  belongs  to  me; 
I  brought  her  home  these  penny  toys 

To  deck  her  Christmas  tree. 
And  on  that  Christmas  tree  there  hung 

A  world  of  trifles  fair, 
For  all  the  folk  that  love  her  well 

Had  set  their  kindness  there. 

93 


T^OIVEN 

But  of  all  the  toys,  of  all  the  many  toys, 

Was  naught  that  pleased  her  mind 
Except  the  trumpet  made  of  tin, 

And  the  doll  with  one  eye  blind. 
And  best  of  all  that  Christmas  brought, 

She  held  one  little  toy 
That  I  bought  for  a  cent  in  the  little  shop, 

To  please  that  aged  boy. 


94 


GRANDFATHER    WATTS'S    PRIVATE 
FOURTH 

GRANDFATHER  WATTS  used  to  tell  us  boys 
That  a  Fourth  wa'n't  a  Fourth  without  any  noise. 
He  would  say,  with  a  thump  of  his  hickory  stick, 
That  it  made  an  American  right  down  sick 
To  see  his  sons  on  the  Nation's  Day 
Sit  round,  in  a  sort  of  a  listless  way, 
With  no  oration  and  no  train-band, 
No  fire-work  show  and  no  root-beer  stand; 
While  his  grandsons,  before  they  were  out  of  bibs, 
Were  ashamed  —  Great  Scott! — to  fire  off  squibs. 

And  so,  each  Independence  morn, 
Grandfather  Watts  took  his  powder-horn, 
And  the  flint-lock  shot-gun  his  father  had 
When  he  fought  under  Schuyler,  a  country  lad; 

95 


And  Grandfather  Watts  would  start  and  tramp 

Ten  miles  to  the  woods  at  Beaver  Camp ; 

For  Grandfather  Watts  used  to  say  —  and  scowl  — 

That  a  decent  chipmunk,  or  woodchuck,  or  owl 

Was  better  company,  friendly  or  shy, 

Than  folks  who  did  n't  keep  Fourth  of  July. 

And  so  he  would  pull  his  hat  down  on  his  brow, 

And  march  for  the  woods,  sou'-east  by  sou*. 

But  once  —  ah,  long,  long  years  ago, — 

For  Grandfather  's  gone  where  good  men  go, — 

One  hot,  hot  Fourth,  by  ways  of  our  own 

(Such  short-cuts  as  boys  have  always  known), 

We  hurried,  and  followed  the  dear  old  man 

Beyond  where  the  wilderness  began  — 

To  the  deep  black  woods  at  the  foot  of  the  Hump ; 

And  there  was  a  clearing  —  and  a  stump. 

A  stump  in  the  heart  of  a  great  wide  wood, 
And  there  on  that  stump  our  Grandfather  stood,  • 
Talking  and  shouting  out  there  in  the  sun, 
And  firing  that  funny  old  flint-lock  gun 
Once  in  a  minute  —  his  head  all  bare  — 
Having  his  Fourth  of  July  out  there : 
The  Fourth  of  July  that  he  used  to  know, 
Back  in  eighteen-and-twenty  or  so  ! 
96 


First,  with  his  face  to  the  heavens  blue, 
He  read  the  "Declaration"  through; 
And  then,  with  gestures  to  left  and  right, 
He  made  an  oration  erudite, 
Full  of  words  six  syllables  long  — 
And  then  our  Grandfather  burst  into  song ! 
And,  scaring  the  squirrels  in  the  trees, 
Gave  "Hail,  Columbia!"  to  the  breeze. 

And  I  tell  you  the  old  man  never  heard 
When  we  joined  in  the  chorus,  word  for  word ! 
But  he  sang  out  strong  to  the  bright  blue  sky; 
And  if  voices  joined  in  his  Fourth  of  July ', 
He  heard  them  as  echoes  from  days  gone  by. 

And  when  he  had  done,  we  all  slipped  back, 
As  still  as  we  came,  on  our  twisting  track, 
While  words  more  clear  than  the  flint-lock  shots 
Rang  in  our  ears. 

And  Grandfather  Watts? 

He  shouldered  the  gun  his  father  bore, 
And  marched  off  home,  nor'-west  by  nor'. 


97 


TO    MY    DAUGHTER 

CONCERNING     A     BUNCH     OF     BLOSSOMS 

THE  blossoms  she  gave  him  —  indeed,  they  were  fair; 
And  grateful  the  odor  they  cast  on  the  air; 
And  he  put  them  in  water,  and  set  them  anigh 
His  little  round  window  that  looked  on  the  sky. 
And  the  blush  of  those  blossoms,  their  pleasant  perfume, 
Made  a  sweet  little  spot  in  that  dull  little  room  — 
Made  a  sweet  little  spot  for  a  day  and  an  hour; 
Then  — 

Well,  little  Lil,  what  's  the  fate  of  a  flower? 

The  blossoms  she  gave  him  —  indeed,  they  were  fair; 
But  I  think  that  the  least  of  the  giving  was  there, 
In  that  vase  by  the  window  —  the  look  in  her  face  — 
Her  tender  and  youthful  and  delicate  grace  — 


The  voice  that  just  trembled  in  gentle  replies, 
The  look  and  the  light  in  her  uplifted  eyes  — 
Ah !  these  to  my  thinking  were  dearer  by  far 
Than  ever  the  fairest  of  May-blossoms  are. 

The  blossoms  she  gave  him  —  you  ask,  little  Lil, 
With  a  lip  that  is  quivering  and  blue  eyes  that  fill  — 
If  they  faded  ? 

They  did  —  but  there  's  no  need  to  cry! 
For  they  blossomed  again  where  I  can't  have  them  die  — 
These  roseate  tints  on  your  soft  little  cheek, 
In  a  manner  mysterious  certainly  speak 
Of  a  bunch  of  pink  blossoms,  fresh  torn  from  the  tree, 
That  in  eighteen-and-eighty  your  mother  gave  me. 


SCHUBERT'S    KINDER-SCENEN 

THE  spirit  of  the  Ingle  Nook 
Has  come  to  lead  me  forth, 
To  wonder  at  the  leaping  brook  — 
The  wind  from  out  the  north. 

To  wander  with  Haroun  the  Great 
Through  groves  of  Eastern  scent; 

To  watch  beyond  the  garden  gate 
The  birds  fly,  heavenward  bent; 

To  lie  amid  the  grass,  and  dream 
Each  slim  and  spreading  spire 

A  tufted  palm,  lit  by  the  gleam 
Of  distant  heavens'  fire. 

To  dream  and  dream  of  things  beyond 
The  gate  —  beyond  to-day  — 

Until  upon  the  miller's  pond 

The  low  red  light  shall  play. 


And  then,  when  all  my  dreams  shall  swim 
To  murmuring  of  the  brook, 

I  shall  be  led  from  twilight  dim 
Back  to  the  Ingle  Nook. 


- 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-Series  444 


DC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A  001  372  644  3 


PS 

1201 

R79 

1892 


